


Honeymoon Period

by thinkpink20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:24:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah is marrying John Watson, but she's trying not to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeymoon Period

Sarah doesn't want a big fancy dress. She is a practical woman, doesn't need to look like a meringue for twenty four hours to prove her love. She just buys a simple cream suit from British Home Stores in the wedding section, brisk and unflinching she takes it to the counter, hands over her credit card and pays for the clothes she will wear on the most important day of her life.

She opts for a register office too, doesn't need the pretence of a church. She's not a Christian and she believes it's hypocritical, getting cosy with the priest for the weeks beforehand just to prepare for the ceremony. And John has seen enough suffering in Afghanistan not to believe in the soft comfort of Christ, the great redeeming power of the God who loves all, especially the little children. John has taken the bodies of blown apart babies back to their screaming mothers and watched their tears fall onto blood stained skin, so neither of them need to ask to be blessed by a figure they don't believe in.

Besides, her parents are both dead and she has no siblings; colleagues from work and the odd friend from university but no list that will fill the side of a church. And John would never invite Harry, so their need for space is not great.

It will be a simple job, a short act and then a party and then a lifetime together. That was what Sarah wanted in the first place anyway, a lifetime together.

On the big day she wakes up in her flat for the last time, gets out of bed and cleans her teeth, steps into the shower, shampoos her hair. There are a list of things to be done but she doesn't panic; what's the point? Panic won't solve anything.

Her friend Moira offers to come to do her hair but Sarah politely refuses, explains she has to go and pick up the flowers before ten anyway, so she'll just stick some curlers in. She ties her hair up in the end though, too busy to wait for the curlers to heat up.

She knows that last night John will have had his stag night, and for some reason this gives her a fear the like of which she has never experienced. She tries to be practical about it, reminding herself that Sherlock might be a lot of things but he is at least reliable; if he promises to be best man and get John to the church on time, he will. And neither is he the type to get drunk and tie his one friend in the world to a lamppost, so technically she has nothing to worry about.

Nothing.

Except the stab of fear she gets when she drops in to the hotel she has booked for the party to check on the catering and sees two of the male waiting staff flirting as they prepare the buffet table. Sarah is listening to the manager telling her all about the menu they have prepared when she sees one man lean into the other and whisper something, bodies just a little bit too close, then the pair exchange a smile. 

She feels that smile go right through her blood, settling with a drop in her stomach.

That's what she's worried about. That there will be one of those smiles exchanged at her wedding but that she won't be involved.

She almost walks out there and then, hails a taxi and gets as far away as possible.

But of course she doesn't; there are guests expecting a wedding and John expecting a bride. She tells herself she's just being silly, maybe it's the stress of organising everything by herself. Most people have family or wedding planners for this sort of thing. Perhaps so that they don't go insane imagining their husband-to-be is secretly in love with his best friend.

Yes, that's what it is. Just her imagination.

John arrives promptly at midday; Sarah is waiting in the coffee house across the road (she doesn't want to be early, brides aren't supposed to be early) and she spots him approaching from the end of the street looking smart and careful in his newly bought suit. Sherlock is with him, impeccable in a purple shirt, always tailored to perfection. Thankfully it is warm enough for him to have left his hero coat at home; she doesn't want him flapping about solving mysteries whilst she's trying to get married, thank you very much. He looks occupied, his face set into hard, taut lines and for a moment she sees the beauty in him that her colleague from the surgery expressed when they met at a pre-wedding dinner. He has that confidence that is so attractive in a man - too much, perhaps - but also there's something fragile about him. Sarah thinks it's the cheekbones. She can't help feeling a twinge of something in her chest, but it isn't attraction.

More like jealousy.

She makes sure to enter the register office at exactly fourteen minutes past twelve; it's traditional for the bride to be late but she doesn't have it in her, so she goes for only a minute early.

When John sees her, his face lights up.

Every tightly held line in her body relaxes, and Sarah lets him kiss her cheek. "You look wonderful," he says quietly into her ear. Their little secret.

The ceremony is as uncomplicated as she hoped for, Sherlock offers the rings on his open palms and she smiles when she catches his eye. He's bowing like a page-boy or a serf and it's difficult not to indulge him playing the fool.

She realised a long time ago, however, that it's worrying when he's charming. It's always for a reason. 

At the party she relaxes and dances with John and they kiss recklessly under the disco lights, Sarah feeling drunk on all the champagne. She's light-headed like a teenager again as all of her friends come to congratulate her, touching her arm. She feels at the centre of things, and that's the way it should be, just for one evening.

Then when they leave the party to catch their 11pm flight to Greece, Sarah manages to hold on to John's hand as he says goodbye to Sherlock.

"Beware Greeks bearing gifts," he says knowingly, and Sarah listens to the warm huff of John's laughter.

"I'll be sure to check his feet next time, if I do."

"And if he has a stammer?" Sherlock smiles. He hardly ever does that for anyone but John, Sarah knows.

"Well I'll shoot him on sight, obviously," John says flippantly, and they share a grin. It's like a secret pact, like a code she can't unravel.

"What was all that about Greeks bearing gifts?" She asks in the taxi on the way to the airport. John's face creases into a warm smile, but he looks away when he does it. Which means it's not for her.

"Oh, just a case we had last year, I nearly lost Sherlock in Athens."

"Right," she says, smiling that uncomfortable smile people muster when they're outside a joke but pretending to be in. It hurts her face.

Then on the third night of the honeymoon they are sitting on the wide open veranda of their hotel, eating out under the stars as the warm night air wraps around them like a luxury.

"So what did you do, then?" Sarah asks, focussing on the drink in her hand to avoid the bald curiosity showing on her face, making her ugly. "On your stag night."

"Oh, not much," John replies. But it's a little bit too quickly and his hand goes to his mouth, touching the corner of his lip. Sarah realises he doesn't know he's doing it and feels that sinking weight in her stomach again. It's like being sick, the wrench that goes through her body; something violent and foreign.

"But you enjoyed yourself though?" She says, glad her voice is strong and doesn't waver. At least she always has that.

"Yeah," John nods, and then - to Sarah's horror - he actually blushes.

 _Oh God,_ she thinks. _Oh God._

When the band starts up a few moments later, John pulls her onto the dancefloor, the train of her cool summer dress trailing along on the floor behind them as they go. She doesn't resist when he kisses her softly on the mouth, lets his tongue graze against her's, giving the impression of intimacy. But she does wonder as she shuts her eyes and feels him bite gently at her bottom lip whether this is something he learned from him. From Sherlock.

And after that the kiss tastes bitter and tart and a tear stings painfully at the back of her eyes.

But Sarah says absolutely nothing, puts on the bravest of faces. She is a practical woman, after all.


End file.
